


At the End of Your Name

by sencha



Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Other, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sencha/pseuds/sencha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve years after the events which brought Tsar Ivan to the throne, his brother Mitya finally receives the opportunity to atone for his actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the End of Your Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gryvon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryvon/gifts).



> _This story is based on the Russian fairy tale 'Tsarevitch Ivan, the Fire Bird and the Gray Wolf'._
> 
>  
> 
>  **Tsar** \- Russian King  
>  **Tsarevitch** \- Prince  
>  **Firebird** \- the tears of the Firebird are said to have restorative powers  
>  **Ivan** \- Vanushka is an affectionate nickname for Ivan  
>  **Dmitry** \- Mitya is the common form of Dmitry, while Mityai is the affectionate form and Mitka can be derogatory

Tsar Ivan rules for the twelfth year, the Tsarevna Elena tucked under his arm like a favorite coat. Ice devours the Russian tundra. It swallows the mountains first, tongues of white licking their way into the towns. Snow gnaws at the forests, forcing the leaves back into their branches to await the warmth of Spring. Even the wolves flee Winter's jaws, retreating instead into the wide mouths of caves. They drape themselves beside the comatose bulk of the bears and shiver in silence. Into this wasteland, the Firebird escapes. 

  


  


  
Grand Duke Vasiliy smiles when Tsarevitch Alexei has departed. Born two years after Mitya, Vasiliy is craftier as a Grand Duke than he had ever been as a Tsarevitch. His smile now speaks of ambition louder than the sound of gold clinking discreetly in a mercenary's hand. Twelve years ago, Mitya was the same. Cold Winter nights on a lonely prison floor have long since quenched the fire of his ambition. While Vasiliy has won for himself the power of a Grand Duke after the disgraceful events of twelve years ago, Mitya is a Grand Duke in name only. Perhaps this is what makes the Tsar allow Mitya to follow young Tsarevitch Alexei as a hidden guard, although Mitya wonders if his brother will in turn send somebody to guard the boy from Mitya. 

  
In the morning, Tsar Ivan gifts him the smallest, ugliest mare able to bear a grown man's weight. Her name is Lena; she had been their father's favorite once. Mitya wonders if Ivan chose Lena to spite him, as a reminder of the time when Grand Duke Dmitry had been Tsarevitch Dmitry, their father's favorite son. All the same, he cannot help the rush of affection he feels when he sees her. She reminds him of better days. Mitya almost thanks the Tsar. He can feel the words rolling behind clenched teeth. 

  
_Thank you, Vanushka._

  
But he lost the privilege to use that name when he pressed a sword into his brother's chest twelve years ago. Instead he bows, the words beating at the back of his teeth until they draw blood from his lip. 

  
Tsarevitch Alexei is easy to catch up to, even on the best horse in the land. Mitya's encounter with the boy's would-be assassin had been quick and easy: the mercenary had laughed at the gold and headed straight to the nearest tavern. Satisfied that his nephew would be safe from Vasiliy's machinations, at least, Mitya has continued tracing the boy's tracks. 

  
Eventually, he spies the boy sleeping in the same field where, only a decade ago, Tsar Ivan had nearly lost his life at the greedy hands of his brothers. A childish whine rises in his ears. It would be so simple to relive that instant. He could kill his brother's son as he had once slain his brother. One stroke. Tsar Ivan would no longer have an heir, and from there… He finds himself drawn to his nephew, sliding the sword soundlessly from its sheath. 

  
One blow. 

  
Tsarevitch Alexei does not even flinch as the sword swings down. 

  
The blunt edge of the sword hilt strikes him unconscious and he sleeps on. Mitya hauls the boy onto the Horse with the Golden Mane, whispering into its shining ears: _Take him home_. He had claimed the beast for a short time after attempting to dispose of Ivan and still feels the loss keenly, but in his twenty-seven years he has learnt to abandon his foolish dreams. There is still a Firebird to collect. 

  
It begins to snow just as he reaches the crossroads. 

  


  
_He who takes the straight shall know cold and hunger._  
 _He who bears to the left shall perish, though his steed shall live._  
 _He who turns to the right shall live, though his steed should die._

  
Twelve years ago, he had been too afraid of losing things to go forward. He had turned back, resting in a field, too ashamed to return to his father and report his failure. By contrast, Vanushka - Tsar Ivan - had valued his own life and comfort more than his steed's. It is a good trait for a Tsar. In the end, Mitya knows himself well enough to understand that he would have made a terrible Tsar, although Ivan's success had made him furiously jealous at the time. 

  
Lena, his old mare, snorts at him; he pats her neck soothingly and urges her straight ahead. He is already well acquainted with cold and hunger, and the riddle implies that suffering these will ensure the survival of both himself and his steed. He makes it three days before his fingertips begin to darken. His stomach constantly rages at the world, snarling at every gust of wind. As the sun sets, he falls to his knees on the ice, thighs aching, and it is in this state that he first sees the beast. 

  
'Mitka,' growls the Gray Wolf. Mitya flinches at the derogatory name. 'If Tsarevitch Ivan did not wish to have your heart still beating I would tear it out now.' 

  
'Gray Wolf, friend of my brother, you cannot devour me. He who takes the straight shall know cold and hunger, but death will not touch him.' His voice shivers, a single snowflake abused by the wind. The beast captures it on a rough tongue, destroying it in a second. 

  
'Grand Duke Dmitry,' it replies, 'you have read the sign well. But I would not have you perish, brother of Ivan. I desire rather that you feel the pain of being torn apart as you once tore your brother.' 

  
Mitya shivers at the image, falling forward onto his hands. He coughs, wincing as the cold assaults his palms. He remembers slicing a corpse on the field, remembers seeing the Horse with the Golden Mane rear back at the pervasive scent of blood. Mitya wraps his arms around his quivering stomach and gathers his thoughts into a snowball of ideas. He hurls them at the beast, too tired to string them into some semblance of a sentence. 

  
'I need you.' 

  
The beast reels back from the blow. 'Need? What need has the Grand Duke Dmitry of a wolf?' 

  
'The Firebird has escaped,' says Mitya. 'Tsar Ivan will perish with grief.' 

  
Golden eyes keep him frozen on his hands and knees before the beast in a grotesque parody of a wild animal. The Wolf circles him, searching. 

  
'Is that not your desire?' asks the Wolf. Mitya lashes out with a clenched fist before he can think. He topples over, arms trembling as he tries to right himself. With an effort of will, he lifts himself back onto his knees, supporting his weight with his hands. 

  
'You have no right,' he croaks. The wind slices his voice to shreds. 'You have no right to question my love.' 

  
Immediately, his brother's dismembered body rises to his mind. Had he any heat to spare, his cheeks would have warmed from embarrassment. The Wolf has plenty of reason to doubt him. Yet it remains silent until his knees give way and he collapses in the snow. He rolls to face the sky, wondering if the Gray Wolf intends to remain silent until he perishes. It bounds atop him, covering him with its shadow, one deadly claw frozen over his heart. Mitya meets the Wolf's gaze and holds it. _Test me,_ he thinks. _I will not yield._

  
The Wolf grips his coat with its teeth and drags him into a sitting position. 

  
'You have grown brave,' it says. It paws at the ice. 'For that reason I will overlook my grudge. Grand Duke Dmitry, brother of Ivan, this is my oath: Until you and the Firebird are returned to the palace in safety, I am yours to command. What will you give me in return?' 

  
Mitya stretches out his empty palms. His hands are almost black against the piercing expanse of snow. 

  
'Everything.' 

  


  


  
The Gray Wolf is as swift as the stories say, fifty times faster than the fastest horse, but Lena is old and tired, and Mitya refuses to leave her. He has always loved animals. When his father had asked him to watch the garden, Mitya had fallen asleep to the song of the birds and failed. When Ivan had been successful, claiming a valiant steed and beautiful princess as his prizes, Mitya had been more jealous over the horse than the princess. Lena is not half as beautiful, but she is his, and a gift from Ivan too. She is more precious to him than any woman could be. 

  
He catches the Wolf staring at him often, as if trying to pierce through a blizzard. Mitya has to squint to keep the Wolf in his vision as he limps behind with Lena. He is still cold, still hungry, but he now has strength to walk. He believes it is the beast's doing, but even if he could gather the courage to ask the beast would not reply. 

  
One morning, when Mitya is helping Lena drink with stiff fingers still blackened with frostbite, the Wolf presses his muzzle gently against the swollen digits. Mitya gasps, clenching his teeth as a thousand needles sting his hand. Within seconds, the dark has receded into red, chafed skin, blotchy but no longer numb. Mitya stares at his palms in wonder. When he looks up again, reaching out to thank the Wolf somehow, his hands find nothing but the mocking caress of wind. The Gray Wolf strides ahead: inscrutable, unreachable. 

  
'Why?' Mitya asks. The air stills as the beast turns, light sifting through coarse fur like the sea under a storm. It gestures at a dark opening but remains silent. 

  
They have come to a cave. Mitya crawls in gingerly. He knows he looks ridiculous like this, on his hands and knees like a beast once more, drinking the dirt in the air like stagnant water and spitting it out again as his stomach rejects the poison. His heart nearly spills from his lips in a scream as he feels a rumbling groan shake the ground beneath his knees. Warm breath splashes over him, terrifying yet somehow soothing. He looks back and the Wolf paws the ground impatiently. Mitya places a hand on the sleeping bear's flank. Warmth swells steadily against his skin. Gray fur brushes against his back as the Wolf curls behind him, and Mitya lies like a wild animal in the embrace of two beasts. 

  


  


  
In his mind he sees his brother falling. _Vanyushka_ , he cries, _Vanya_ , _Vanya_ , and Tsarevitch Ivan opens his eyes. 

  
_Call me Ivan_ , he demands, and all of a sudden he is a Tsar. The lament of a crow swallows the sky. _Look!_ the man with his brother's face cries, and Mitya watches the crow burst into a thousand black feathers. When he stretches out to catch one it bleeds red over his hands. His fingers close over each other to stem the flow, but it drips down his arms and stains the ice crimson. 

  
White jaws rise up. 

  
_Mitka_ , the Wolf snarls, and the world goes dark. 

  
  
_Mitya watches the crow burst into a thousand black feathers;  
when he stretches out to catch one it bleeds red over his hands. _

  


  


  
He wakes to the Wolf carrying him out of the cave. 

  
'Nightmares cannot harm you,' it says, and dumps him unceremoniously into the snow. 'Wake up.' A pause. 'Idiot.' 

  
'You called me Mitka,' says Mitya after a beat, his tongue seeming too large for his mouth. He claps a hand over his lips immediately, feeling dizzy and confused and, for some strange reason, incredibly hurt. 

  
The Wolf says nothing but it steps back almost clumsily, a stark contrast from its usual graceful movement. 

  
'I'm sorry.' Mitya murmurs. Delusional, he must be delusional. There is nothing graceful about the beasts of the wild. He clambers to his feet. His stomach hurts, his knees are sore, and he suddenly feels incredibly tired. 

  
The Wolf studies him briefly. 'Ride on my back,' it says, almost gently, but Mitya shakes his head. 

  
'Can you carry a horse as well as a man?' he asks. 'I have chosen hunger and cold to keep my horse with me, and I will not abandon her now.' 

  
As they begin walking, Mitya wraps a cloak around himself and drapes it over Lena. The horse snuggles against him; the Gray Wolf prowls beside them. 

  
They stop at a lake frozen over with ice. 

  
'Another choice, Grand Duke,' the Wolf says. Mitya hears both banter and contempt in its tone and knows not which to believe. 'Across the lake or around?' 

  
'You know better than I,' Mitya replies. 

  
'Then we will cross the lake,' the Wolf decides. 'You are a straightforward man, Mitya.' 

  
Mitya stares at the Wolf. _You are a straightforward man, Mitya._ It is a common nickname, but it is a dozen times warmer than _Grand Duke Dmitry_ , and it is far softer than _Mitka._ In that moment, Mitya sees the Wolf and does not feel fear. 

  
'What is your name?' he asks. The Wolf turns away. 

  
'When we arrive at the castle, turn left at the Great Hall and take the apple from the well. Leave the apple on the second step and when the Firebird alights on the stairs, run to it and tear off its wings.' 

  
Mitya slips and knees the ground hard. Luckily, the ice is thick; only a shadow scars its surface. 

  
'What?' 

  
'You must not let it fly away.' 

  
He remembers the slippery feel of his brother, torn apart on the grass. The feathers of the Firebird will not slip so, perhaps, but they will still be warm. _Call me Ivan._ Pieces of his brother scattered across the snow. _Is that not your desire?_ He plunges the sword into his brother's chest. _Mitka._ The ice shifts, or he slides, and he accidentally elbows Lena. She rears back, stamping in fright. Mitya stares in dread as the ice splits, the frost glimmering in anticipation like the toothy smile of a travelling bard. The Gray Wolf turns. Shocked golden eyes and the ripple of muscle is all he sees before the cold swallows him up. 

  


  


  
'Grand Duke Dmitry, brother of Ivan. Mitya, Mitya.' 

  
Mitya thinks he hears an anxious upwards flick at the end of his name. Astounded, he waits for confirmation. Through the darkness, the voice melts into his heart. 

  
'Mityai.' 

  
He hears the almost-swallowed final syllable like a flame against his chest. A name he has not heard since he was a boy, when the birds used to gift his clothes with their feathers and the Winter seemed to breathe that loving word as sweetly as the family he used to have. Since his attempted fratricide, Winter has passed to Summer year after year, yet the warmth of the seasons no longer fights against the unyielding lump of ice he used to call a heart. Who calls his name like they still care? He has to know… 

  
'Who are you?' 

  
Instantly, the cold bites his neck, clawing greedily at his body. Before he can cry out, soft feathers caress his cheek, warm as glowing embers. A pearl of a tear strokes his chin. 

  
The Firebird. 

  
'You are here,' he laughs, half in amazement. The bird is whole; she could fly away at any instant, yet she stays. She presses her beak against his nose and Mitya hears a voice like wedding bells in his mind: _I have chosen you. The tears of the Fire Bird will keep you from death as long as this heart still beats_. He turns to the Wolf. 

  
'You brought her to me.' 

  
The Wolf inclines his head in response. Mitya wants to ask why, but he looks from bird to wolf to his own renewed body and hears _the tears of the Fire Bird will keep you from death_. All of a sudden, he feels like laughing. Tsarevitch Dmitry was unable to bring back the Firebird; twelve years later the Grand Duke Dmitry is no better than his younger self. It is, in a sense, no more than he had expected. 

  
'Hopeless,' he murmurs into his hands. The Wolf looks at him sharply. Mitya smiles back and the Wolf, the one who has been judging Mitya with its unflinching gaze through this journey, looks away. Mitya smiles wider and watches as the Wolf struggles with uncertainty. 

  
'Did I die, or was I close?' he asks, unable to contain his curiosity. 'Did you revive me the same way you revived my brother?' 

  
The story of Ivan's miraculous resurrection at the hands of the Gray Wolf has been spread across the Tsardom. The Wolf pauses, taken aback by Mitya's enthusiasm. It scrapes a paw across the ice. 

  
'Only the birds have access to the fountain of life,' it says at last, its voice a deep rumble tinted with resentment. 'Wolves can only bring death.' 

  
He does not know how to answer that. 

  
'I'm sorry,' he says, not knowing what he is apologizing for. The Wolf tosses its head as if to fling away the feeble words. 

  
'You should be. If you had been like your brother you would have come back with a few more treasures than this.' The unspoken ' _idiot_ ' floats in the air for only a moment after before it is torn to pieces by the wind. 

  
'Do you wish I were him?' asks Mitya, and he is surprised by his own question and by the pain that sears through his heart as he awaits the Wolf's answer, like a hot brand is being pressed to his ice-cold heart. 

  
'Do you wish you were?' the Wolf growls back. Mitya is silent for a moment. He thinks of his brother, too full of greed to listen to the Wolf's commands, too hungry for more to be satisfied with anything less than the Princess as well as the Horse, as well as the Firebird. He thinks of Tsar Ivan, with a Tsarevna frozen to his side and a golden horse whose luster has faded to dust from being kept in a stable for safekeeping. He thinks of his brother, betrayed, blood seeping from his chest, saved only by the loyalty of a wolf, and for a moment, he wishes. 

  
_Call me Mityai,_ he wants to say. _Answer my question. Choose me._

  
'This is enough,' he says finally, surprised at his own sincerity. So much for the heroic quests of Russian lore, involving trial after trial and a beautiful princess waiting at the end of the journey. Then again, he is no longer the successor to Tsardom; he has no claim on any treasures he gains on this quest. The Firebird will return to Ivan, and Grand Duke Vasiliy will rain down vengeance on Mitya for thwarting his plans. At least Tsar Ivan may be grateful enough to thaw a little of the ice that sits stubborn between their hearts. Perhaps not. With a jolt, Mitya realizes that he will return from this ice-covered wasteland to an equally unforgiving environment. The Firebird taps his shoulder with her beak, and Mitya places his hands on the frozen tundra, pushing himself cautiously off the ice. 

  
'You are too weak yet to walk,' observes the Gray Wolf. 'Ride on my back.' 

  
Mitya glances at Lena, trotting in slow circles around the lake. 

  
'I will walk,' promises the Wolf. 'We are in no hurry.' 

  
Gingerly, Mitya clambers onto the Wolf's broad back. The coarse hair shifts and slides beneath him. 

  
'Hold tight to my back,' the Wolf advises, and Mitya barely stays on as his new steed races off through the wilderness. 

_'Hold tight to my back,' the Wolf advises, and Mitya barely stays on  
as his new steed races off through the wilderness. _

  
He frowns at the Wolf when he sees Lena waiting for them at the palace when they arrive, barely two heartbeats later. The Wolf looks back innocently, but Mitya thinks he sees a glimmer of amusement in its eyes. He clambers off its back reluctantly. For the barest of moments, he has the sudden, intense urge to put his arms around the Wolf, but the longing thaws to a rounder sense of loss as he steps away. The Wolf paces, jaws widening and snapping shut again like a trap. 

  
'I have paid my part of the bargain,' it begins at last, almost hesitantly. 'I - ' 

  
'Name your price,' Mitya replies, arms folding over his chest defensively. 'My life is in your debt twice over.' 

  
The Wolf swipes at a block of ice. It shatters like bone under the beast's touch. 

  
'We will not meet again,' it informs him solemnly. 'This is my request: Do not forget the journeys you have made with the Gray Wolf.' 

  
Mitya laughs. His arms unfurl from his chest and he places a hand against the beast's snout. 

  
'I refuse.' 

  
The Wolf steps back in surprise. Mitya follows it, marveling at the warm breath passing under his fingers. 

  
'Tell me your name,' he says. 'You never replied to my question, back at the lake.' 

  
Something glimmers in the Wolf's eyes, making Mitya's breath catch. 'I refuse.' 

  
He smiles. 'Then I refuse to let you go.' 

  
The Wolf shakes its head in denial. 'That is not your decision to make.' 

  
'This was your oath, was it not? You are mine to command until both I and the Firebird are returned safely to the palace.' 

  
'And here you are.' 

  
'No.' Mitya steps forwards again and sees the Gray Wolf flinch back. 'I am not yet within the palace walls.' He whistles, and the Firebird flies down, pressing her beak to his forehead. 

  
_I am sorry I must leave you here awhile,_ he thinks. She laughs. 

  
_The human heart is large enough for many loves,_ she replied, _and the love of a Firebird lasts long enough for many lives. I will meet with you when the Tsar Ivan once more mingles with the snow._ Mitya strokes her beak. 

  
_Until then_ , he promises. He turns to the Gray Wolf, who has turned and is pacing away at an increasingly rapid pace. 

  
'Where do you go when the ice melts?' he calls, running to catch up with it. The Wolf growls in frustration, but it is not running yet, not yet faster than a hundred horses, not quicker yet than even old Lena. He smiles. The Wolf is not so tired of his company. 

  
'I am _Volk_ ,' it growls. 'Now release me.' Mitya laughs. 

  
'Male, then,' he says, conversationally, but stops there. 

  
The Wolf glares. Mitya relents. 

  
'I release you,' he whispers, knowing his voice will carry across the wind. The snow is falling still, peppering the mountains with its frozen kisses. The trees are still bare. But Mitya is no longer cold. 'Go, if you must. But I will follow.' 

  
Volk sweeps his tail across the ice. He tenses, ready to flee, and Mitya feels his heart leap into his throat. 

  
'You are a fool,' the Wolf says finally, but he does not flee. Mitya looks at the Wolf and sees a flash of silver darting between the trees, the fleeting possibility of a thousand wonders. He sees warmth through the Winter and a cure for loneliness. He sees the ice melt at the beginning of Spring and before his eyes Volk stands tall like a man and not a beast, gazing at him with glittering eyes the color of gold. Mitya may be a fool for chasing that gold but he is happier than he has ever been before. He smiles. 

  
'Not fool enough to fall for your lies. The world calls you _Volk,_ Wolf, but you are different from the wolves which prey on us in the snow. Tell me who you are,' he pleads. 'Give me a name to speak.' 

  
'Give me yours,' the Gray Wolf echoes. Mitya smiles. 

  
'You know already,' he says, and he nudges the Wolf's flank gently. _Call my name._

  
_Volk_ huffs into the ice. 

  
'Mityai,' he rumbles, finally, and Mitya feels Spring blossom two months early at the sound of that affectionate 'i'. 'Get on my back.' 

  
He leaps on in a heartbeat and watches his world blur into white. 

  


_'You are a fool,' the Wolf says finally, but he does not flee._

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous round of applause to my wonderful beta for all your hard work translating my confusing gibberish onto normal English <3
> 
> And thank you to everyone who read to the end for putting up with my indulgent pictures as well as my terribly Google researched attempt at emulating Russian/Russian culture in my story!


End file.
